Search This Blog

History

MIGUEL SERRANO
He always tells it in the same vein, with the same words, so it may well be true. He says that there were only eight people on the bus. They had spent the whole night dancing - hundreds or thousands of people in that club - and in the morning they returned to Zaragoza, now there were only eight of them, eight people on the bus, all returning from the same thing, from the big party celebrating youth. The night had come to an end much earlier, but it was raining, the day was really overcast, so the rain was somehow prolonging the night. She listened to the sound of the rain on the roof of the bus; she could see the shapes formed by the drops of water on the glass, wandering, unexpected trajectories. From her seat she overlaid the shivering drops with the movement of the people walking in the street, searching for similarities. Nobody spoke. Then she realised that she didn’t have an umbrella with her and that when they reached the end of the journey she was going to get wet. There was no sound inside the bus, just the pitter-patter up above, on the roof. The people walking in the street were also moving along in silence. How many times had she seen in that same spot large movements of silent people, during the Three Kings Parade, the queue gradually making its way towards the Flower Offering, the Crystal Rosary, processions. Slowness and solemnity, history. It was then that she saw the silhouette of the Carmen Gate in front of her and thought: “How strange everything is, that gate has been there for thousands of years, but now it is no longer a gate: you can’t go in or out. Before it used to mark the boundary of the city. I don’t know what it means now. And I feel tired, we have nearly arrived and I’m going to get wet.” She was hardly surprised by the squeaking of the wheels on the tarmac or the shaking of the engine, like that of a plane about to take off.